


In the Light of Day

by somewhereelse



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-08
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2018-08-29 22:28:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8507944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somewhereelse/pseuds/somewhereelse
Summary: AU. Out-of-town one night stand that follows them home.





	

**Author's Note:**

> One day I'll write in the Arrow-verse.

****“Hold the door please!”

A somewhat desperate voice reaches her free ear, and Felicity kicks out a heeled foot to trigger the sensor so the elevator doors spring back open. She doesn’t really want to spend the elevator ride with a stranger but figures that, even with her babbling, she can keep the phone conversation vague enough and get Iris to hang up by the time she needs to be at her meeting.

“Yes, I’m sure. The possibility of that series of events occurring again is pretty slim.” As she’s stretching her access card from the clip on her waist to the reader under the panel of numbers, the stranger rushes in with a muttered _Thanks_. “Welcome,” Felicity murmurs back, busy selecting the correct number for her new floor and office; it had taken her days to not end up on her old floor every morning and post-lunch. “Iris, stop, it was a one and done thing.”

The newcomer clears his throat purposefully, and Felicity looks up at him for the first time, ready to launch into the standard spiel about visitors needing temporary access cards from reception to use the elevators. “Visit—oh frack.”

“Are you talking about having sex with me?”

“No,” Felicity rushes out the denial, even more flustered when Oliver— _Queen_ she now realizes—raises a skeptical eyebrow at her. “Um, I was talking about getting a hole in one at mini golf on the windmill hole. Really difficult, lots of logistics. You know, speed, timing, force of the swing, direction, avoiding those stupid windmill blades, pretty much impossible...” She trails off as Oliver Queen, AKA her weekend one night—or a night and full day to be accurate—stand in Central City where she’d been visiting Barry and Iris so she should have been free to have anonymous, mind-blowing sex without fear of running into her exceeds-expectations partner where she lives in Starling City but instead she’s managed to bed the man with his last name on the building of her place of employment, continues to stare disbelieving at her.

“You’re talking about mini golf?” he rasps out, hitching his eyebrows closer to his hairline. _Soft hair, imminently touchable, perfect length for grabbing_ , her traitorous mind reminds her as her fingers twitch longingly.

Felicity coughs, clumsily tapping the screen to hang up on a loudly curious Iris. “Ah, yes, like I said, got a hole in one this weekend.” Really, she has no idea where she’s taking this lie and is increasingly aware that it sounds like a strange innuendo for what—who—she’d actually been doing this weekend. By the grace of some higher power, her mouth manages to not repeat what she’d said previously about it being a one and done, because closing the door on Oliver Queen is not something she needs to be doing, both as a warm-blooded female with an appreciation for the male form or as the employee of someone who allegedly takes remarkable pride—well-earned as she can now personally testify—in his sexual prowess.

Somehow, his skeptical eyebrow now wordlessly conveys the questions of _Really? When?_ Because they had met at a bar on Friday night and basically fucked till dawn on Sunday, all over what she thought was his sterile, bachelor pad and now realizes must have been some sort of corporate housing situation. Come Sunday morning she had slipped out from under a sleeping Oliver to meet Barry and Iris, who’d been slightly irked that she had ostensibly come out to visit them and instead spent the entire weekend between a stranger’s sheets, to grab lunch before her train home.

Oliver crowds her into the corner with the elevator panel, snaking a hand around her hip to jab at the stop button, and she can’t help the hard swallow at the (un?)intentional reminder of everything she experienced this weekend. A glance up at the display tells her they’ve passed the fifteenth floor and isn’t that just a coincidence? “Felicity, can I have your number?”

His question jolts her out of the memories of why fifteen is now her favorite number. “ _What?!_ ” Felicity can’t keep the incredulity tinging her voice, because while she had convinced herself it was a one-off based on practical reasons—location, impromptu decision-making, perfect stranger—there was also that niggling voice in the back of her mind, convincing her a guy like him had no long-term interest in a girl like her.

“Well,” Oliver sheepishly rubs a hand over the back of his neck, “I wanted to ask but you left and I thought you lived in Central City—and maybe you do—but can I have your number?”

“So you can booty call me whenever you’re in Central?” _Oh god_ , what is her brain/mouth even doing right now? Although she has little to no desire to be a number in Oliver Queen’s little black book, no matter how phenomenal the sex, there are certainly better ways of turning down the man in question, especially when he’s technically her boss.

* * *

There’s a weird sense of anticipation lingering over him this morning, and Oliver feels like his week will be terrible. Does the week start on Monday or technically Sunday? Because Sunday was the worst, and he can’t imagine the week going downhill from there but life’s a little bitch like that. Sure enough, the last elevator is closing its doors, and a quick glance at the indicators above the others confirm that they’re somewhere in the upper decks of the building. He’ll be late for the meeting with the new IT director if he doesn’t make this one so Oliver groans and uncharacteristically calls out a request to hold the elevator.

A slim leg ending in a fuck me heel pops out from between the doors, coaxing them to stay open. Oliver nearly stops in his tracks at the wave of lust that hits him suddenly because legs just like that one are the entire reason his weekend had been pleasantly derailed then unceremoniously disappointing.

Rolling his eyes at his dramatic mood, Oliver finishes jogging into the confined space, muttering his thanks, before his mind registers first the ponytailed blonde chattering on her cell phone and then the recognizable scent filling the cab. As he’s trying to wrap his mind around the chances—astronomical?—her voice breaks through the fog. It’s a little higher and more rested, not like when they’d been having a shouted conversation in the loud bar or like when she’d been hoarse after screaming for other reasons he was undeniably proud of, but intimately familiar all the same.

“—one and done thing.”

_How about no?_ Oliver clears his throat deliberately and is surprised when the first expression she has upon looking up is mild annoyance that then drops into shocked disbelief. He plows over the start of her reprimand that he needs a visitor badge and the strange curse when she realizes it’s him to the issue at hand, “Are you talking about having sex with me?”

The elevator starts ascending as she stumbles through an explanation about mini golf, and Oliver involuntarily quirks a smile because is she trying to spare his ego by lying about calling him a one night stand? Disbelievingly, he raises his eyebrows and mumbles an inane question about mini golf to confirm. Felicity fumbles with her phone for a second to hang up on her friend, whose tinny voice had been demanding to know what’s going on, before persevering in her utterly ridiculous story.

After all, he had sexed her up thoroughly on Friday night. When he’d woken late Saturday morning, she’d been slumbering in bed beside him, a tangle of loose limbs and messy hair, and he’d had zero qualms about waking her up for another round. Busy with some combination of sex and naps, they hadn’t left the apartment the entire day—she ordered pizza with a few taps on her phone and surprised him by promising the delivery guy an extra twenty bucks to pick up some mint chip ice cream which she proceeded to lick off his abs—and were exhausted by the time the sky was lightening up Sunday morning. The next time he’d woken up, Oliver had been determined to get in at least one more round before figuring out how to see this woman again, soon, as often as possible, but he’d been alone.

All in all, Felicity had had no time for mini golf this weekend.

He realizes he’s crowded her into a corner when he reaches for the stop button and only needs to slip his hand past her hip to get there. She’s wide-eyed and slightly flushed and so fucking irresistible that Oliver can’t help the blunt question he never got to ask yesterday, “Felicity, can I have your number?”

Clearly that isn’t what she’s expecting, because her replying _What?!_ is sharp and incredulous. Oliver cringes before fumbling his way through a longer, no more eloquent explanation of why he wants her number. _Idiot_ , he mentally chastises himself. The QC access card is a telltale sign she works here, unless she's an outside consultant or seasoned visitor, and he really should be smoother than implying he's looking for an easy hook-up. His boyish charm has matured into an effortless charisma—or so his mother says—that should be enough to convince her he's got _plans_ for them, but, no, he's clumsy and heavy-handed. Although he’s not the playboy of old, Oliver normally doesn’t get so flustered around women he’s seen naked. As in, can still imagine her naked due to the fresh images of approximately 24 hours ago.

“Look, Oliver, I’m sorry but I don’t think I can process this right now. I have to get ready for a meeting with the new mystery president. Do you even know who he is? I'm assuming he's a he although I shouldn't do that. It’s kind of annoying that they won’t just announce the name.” Felicity is literally flapping her hands against his chest as she babbles, and Oliver realizes he really needs to get a grip on how much he unconsciously leans into her.

His brain skips over her temporary rejection to settle on the reminder of why he's even in the elevator in the first place, “And I’m late for a meeting with the new IT director.”

“No, I got an email from the secretary pushing back the meeting because the president would be late coming back from his business trip in… Central City. _Oh god_.” Felicity’s eyes snap up to meet his as they’re both hit with the realization and a vague sense of panic. After gaping at him for a solid minute, she expels a heavy breath. “You’re the new president. I slept with my actual boss and not just my figurative boss because your name is on the side of the building.”

“Wasn’t much sleeping involved,” Oliver smirks when she blushes heavily at the unsubtle reminder of their weekend activities. Speaking of, his mind turns over the events of the weekend. Felicity hadn’t given any hint that she knew his identity all weekend—she probably would have exploded babbling once she recognized him—and her genuine concern—he was going to ignore the undertones of horror in her voice—that she had acted inappropriately soothed his ego. No, Felicity hadn’t targeted him and isn't going to use their world-tilting sexual chemistry for favors at the office, if anything she's going to run in the opposite direction whenever she sees him.

“ _Oliver!_ That is so not helping right now. How did even this happen?” She drops her head against the wall of the elevator before opening an eye to peek up at him. Damn, that’s adorable. “You’re taller in person than I thought.”

Oliver only shrugs helplessly. Sure, he’s different from when he’d left Starling City five years ago to go train under Walter Steele in the London office and finish his business degree by correspondence. Shorter hair—darker even from lack of sun—permanent five o’clock shadow, bulkier build, no more idiotic grin during drunken shenanigans, generally more serious, business- and family-minded personality, and of course, no more going by Ollie. The average person in Starling City hasn’t looked him at twice, so why would anyone in Central City recognize him?

* * *

Current Felicity doesn’t know what kind of bitch Past Felicity had been to deserve this kind of karma. She had gone to Central City to visit Barry and Iris specifically to unwind before this career-defining meeting with the new president. She’d also been receptive to the uncharacteristic one night stand because Iris had convinced her that a good orgasm—or the multiple Oliver had generously provided—was all she needed to settle her nerves. And it had worked—at least until three minutes ago when she realized said relaxation therapy had been provided courtesy of her new boss.

To her surprise, Oliver doesn’t look at all freaked out that they had inadvertently fucked the boss-employee line into the ground this weekend. Of course, for all she knows, this is par the course for him. After his self-imposed exile to London, few reports of Ollie Queen’s alcohol-induced, womanizing mishaps had crossed the pond. Whether he’s stopped engaging in that kind of behavior or just learned discretion—like picking up unsuspecting blondes in Central City—is anyone’s guess.

“Felicity,” his tone is more composed from the bumbling he previously did trying to get her number, “I understand where you’re coming from but we're going to work  _together_. You are not an intern or my assistant, you are a director in the largest and founding office of this company, and by everything I’ve seen and heard, you’re brilliant, in _every_ sense of the word.” Felicity flushes because why is Oliver Queen alluding to her bedroom skills during whatever this speech is supposed to be? Though she supposes he has a point about her not really being his subordinate, if that’s even the point he’s trying to make.

“So the question stands: can I have your number? I don't care where you live but I would really like to repeat this weekend, preferably after I take you to dinner. Do you like Italian? You like Italian right? Everyone likes Italian.” His words end in a rush, and he seems to be holding his breath waiting on her answer.

Felicity feels like she’s been struck dumb, or is being punked. Because who would believe that her inhumanly attractive and _talented_ boss would be interested in dating little old her? Sure, she can hold it together for a night—or even a weekend—of playing the part of fast and loose, but the moment the words _IT girl_ get dropped, so does any male interest. Abandon hope all ye who enter here.

* * *

Oliver rolls his fingers together as she takes her sweet time to respond. Better third attempt but still leaves room for improvement. Somehow, discovering that Felicity is the brilliant IT director everyone gushes about has twisted up all his game. He hadn’t had to try hard on Friday night—she was just as interested and eager—but now it’s different.

Sometime on Saturday, his mind had subconsciously shifted from weekend delight to _yeah, this could work_ , and Oliver thought the same had happened for her. But he’d woken up to an empty apartment, and now, even as their chemistry still sparks in the air, she’s hesitant. For more reasons than him being the new mystery president, he’s sure, and probably the same reasons that whenever she’d flown off on a tangent during the weekend, she would just as quickly cut herself off with an embarrassed grin and follow it up with a move that sent his mind splintering.

Slowly, Oliver leans away from how he's looming over her, reaching for the stop button to call the elevator back into motion. It’s clear he’s pushed too far, too quickly, or something. Maybe he’ll wait until they settle into their new working relationship and build some rapport and credibility in their new positions before trying again.

“Wait,” the soft word is accompanied by her hand wrapping around his wrist, and Oliver grits his teeth against the shock of pleasure. He smoothly adjusts their hands so his fingers are interlaced with hers, and she gives him a tentative smile. “Stay awake through my presentation, and you’ve got yourself a date.”


End file.
